


at your feet

by nymja



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, fic prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows he is not worthy of her.<br/>But, if she is mad enough to consider him, then he is mad enough to let her.</p><p>--<br/>A collection of drabbles/short stories for the Blackwall/f!Inquisitor romance, most from tumblr prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. his hands shook

**Author's Note:**

> This will be an on-going collection of Blackwall/f!Inquisitor drabbles! The ship has kind of consumed me, so I'm open for requests as well :D (just drop a comment here or in my tumblr askbox: gizkasparadise.tumblr.com)
> 
> At the moment, there's no BIG spoilers if you haven't finished the game/romance storyline, but I'll mark them in the notes for each drabble if that changes!

His hands shook.

 _I’ll be damned,_ he thought, as he wrapped both betraying appendages around his mug of ale,  _it’s been years._

And as Blackwall’s never been accused of idiocy before, he knows exactly what it is that has jump-started this long-forgotten tic. 

Evelyn sits beside him, hands moving as she animatedly tells him stories from her travels—it’s been nearly a week since he’s seen her last, since she left him behind in Haven to help train Cullen’s troops while she explored the Hinterlands. And, seeing her once more after what feels like an eternity (and how does it feel so long, when he’s known her less than three months?) he almost hears and sees her separately, as he soaks in her laugh and watches her smile. 

And his hands shake.

He drinks, and tries to look away from the Lady, tries to look at anything else, and fails miserably and completely. 

At her seat next to him, she tilts her head and her eyes narrow in amusement and he knows he is well on his way to lost already, “You’re spilling.”

"Damn," he pats the front of his tunic, and feels the wet stain of ale on it, "You miss nothing, I see."

Evelyn gives a soft laugh, and he clings to the sound almost as tightly as he clings to the tankard, “Do I make you nervous, Ser Blackwall?”

_If only you knew, my Lady._

He puts down the tankard, and rests his hand over her own. It settles, and he exhales, “She has the world at her feet, a smile aimed at me, and asks if I’m  _nervous_.” Blackwall takes another drink, with a steadier grip in his free hand, “I doubt this is a new effect on the men you keep company with, my Lady.”

Evelyn lets a slow grin crawl up her face, and she doesn’t move her hand. Instead, she leans forward as if they are partners in a conspiracy (and they are, in a manner—the type that gives a man a tic that stays with him for over a decade).

"From what I understand," Evelyn turns her hand, so his fingers fold within hers, "Nerves never hurt anyone."

_…if only you knew, my Lady._


	2. you're doing it wrong

"No, no, no! You're doing it wrong! Watch me," she smirked.

Blackwall tried and failed to keep his eyebrows from raising as Evelyn slammed the hammer down across the anvil, using the flat side to smooth out the leather expanse of bear hide she’d brought back with her earlier. 

(And that had been a sight, hadn’t it? A mage slamming her staff into a massive bear’s throat? He hadn’t been worried, because she was far more capable at fighting than most people would give a mage credit for, but if he had been there with his sword faster than usual it wasn’t something he was prepared to comment on)

He leaned against the nearest wooden support beam, crossing his arms over his chest and he can’t keep the admiration out of his voice if he tried (which he doesn’t, anymore), “And where did a Circle mage learn to make armor?”

"I’m-" the ting! of the hammer once more, "-a fast-" another slam, "-study-" and the hammer lands against her hand instead of the hide, "- _Andraste’s burning knickers!_ ”

He’s there before she realizes it, lifting her hand between his own in inspection, “Nothing broken…” Her fingers are dwarfed by the bulk of his gloves, but the weight of them is enough. He clears his throat.

And Evelyn winces, “My pride, maybe.”

Blackwall smiles, eyes drifting towards the bear skin, “Well, your armor looks decent enough.”

She laughs, and it makes him unable to relinquish her hand back to her. Finally, Evelyn looks at him (and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the type of  _look_ that is), and wiggles her no doubt stinging fingers.

"I think I might have need of my hand back, Blackwall."

(Or maybe he  _is_ imagining it? But he doesn’t try to stop what’s next, doesn’t even think about it, really)

He bows his head, and presses a slow kiss to the back of it, “Of course, my lady.”

 


	3. he's not himself

He's not himself around her.

With every step, he knows one thing for certain: he shouldn’t be heading in that direction. But he keeps moving forward, because at this point he is just as damned with either decision. The moment she had walked away from him in the Hinterlands, and expected him to follow, Blackwall found he could do nothing else.

And what was perhaps most frightening, is that he found he didn’t mind. 

He doesn’t mind her accepting someone so clearly below her station and prestige. He doesn’t mind that he can’t hide the fact that he’s been staring at her when she turns to him. He can’t stop the corners of his mouth from lifting when she comes into the barn. And he can’t help that small,  _righted_ feeling in his chest when she trusts him enough to cover her back with his shield. 

He goes up a few more stairs. The torch light on the sides cast shadows in the darkened hallway, and he feels his mouth go dry in a way it hasn’t since he was a far younger man.

He needs her. He needs her just as much as he needs the badge in his pocket. Because, in all his years of travel, he’s never before felt the admiration that could rival that of the Grey. Triumph over it.

It’s not infatuation. That, he has learned to ignore. And it’s not quite reverence, for a man so enamored with something higher does not have the type of desires he has for her. And it’s more than just a purpose.

So if it’s not infatuation, and if it’s not reverence, then he has already gone too far down a path he never should have allowed himself to tread.

He knows he is not worthy of her.

But, if she is mad enough to consider him, then he is mad enough to let her.

And so he continues.


	4. some days

Some days she was cold, some days she was kind.

And he’s not sure what to make of her, this woman who can cut a man in half with the wave of her hand and croon the fifth verse of a bawdy Antivan drinking song in a near unbearable, tone-deaf falsetto. Who can identify medicinal plants and smith armor, mine strange stones and recite mage lore from several centuries past. Who carefully braids her hair into the arrangement of a lady, but sports a nose slightly crooked from too many breaks. Who drops an avalanche on an army to save a village and makes her way back home with no one there to help her.

She’s…remarkable.

He watches her from across the tavern, sees her lose a round of cards to Solas and Varric, hears her swap lewd stories no Circle mage should know with Sera and Dorian, admires the tilt of her lips when Vivienne pays her a compliment, and he wonders how a man as undeserving as he finds himself caught in this place of unending extremes.

She looks up at him, and he meets her eyes.

And, Maker help him, he knows he’s already unable to navigate whatever will come next.


	5. herald

"Aren't you sick of being called 'The Herald of Andraste' by those Thedosians?"

She looks up at the question from her book—Varric’s newest—and tilts her head, “…I haven’t thought about it much, why?”

Across her room, out on the balcony, Blackwall stands with his arms folded behind his back. It’s not the first time he’s shared her quarters for the night (Maker knows sleeping on hay gets old after a while), but it  _is_ the first time she’s seen him this…drawn. _  
_

She sees him slump, a hand moving to rub the bridge of his nose, “It’s…it’s nothing, forget I mentioned it.”

Like hell. The Inquisitor slowly puts the book face down on her desk and stands, crossing the few feet between them. Blackwall is still in his sleeping clothes, just a pair of trousers, and the heat from his exposed torso is nearly radiating as she goes to stand beside him. His eyes dart at her, and she’s surprised at how the slight narrowing of them, and the small pull of his lips into a frown, paint his profile in a way she can only describe as grieving.

And she thought it had been a pleasant enough morning, too. Certainly the wake-up had been.

"Blackwall," she says slowly, and she sees his shoulders tense and his fingers curl into fists and she has to wonder just what it is that has this man so…unlike himself, "You’ve never voiced concern with the title before."

He turns to her then, and his mouth parts, just a little, as he struggles to find the words he wishes to speak. She waits, patiently, as she sees an entire conversation dance across his eyes before he settles on the one he desires.

"Maker’s balls, I am truly not deserving of this," he grumbles, and she feels the way his stare moves over every inch of her.

And she smiles. For his looks have always had that effect—they weren’t the sly glances of men at the tavern. They were…admiring. And while she never thought she’d wish to be admired, this type of attention is one she can grow used to.

The Inquisitor smirks, just a little, “I  _do_ have stronger interrogation techniques.”

He sighs, and the tension slowly uncoils as he faces her. One of his hands, calloused and heavy, rests with surprisingly delicacy against her throat, fingers entwining with the stray pieces of hair at her nape, “Whatever do you see in an old man,” he wonders out loud.

The Inquisitor closes her eyes, and enjoys the feeling of his rough fingers against the tender skin of her scalp, “I have a proposition.”

His brows raise. And she is definitely smirking now.

"I have another hour before I’m needed at the War Council. And, it turns out, the Herald of Andraste still has need of physical comfort," she places a hand against his chest, feels the exposed skin pleasantly warm against the palm that bears the mark.

Blackwall makes a strange noise caught somewhere between a sigh and a groan, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

"I can think of-"

But she doesn’t get a chance to finish, as he bears his mouth down on hers, the hand on her neck tightening like she’s an anchor.


End file.
